Snapshot
by Las Vegas Navarro
Summary: A picture is sometimes worth more than words.


Don stared at the photo until his vision blurred. He rubbed his eyes and took some deep breaths through his nose to keep the nausea at bay. This was the part he hated most, the refractory headaches that struck without warning and made him temporarily weak. Grabbing a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, he carefully avoided contact with the stitches over his right eye and applied them to his forehead, letting the cold begin to numb the pain.

He was beginning to feel human again when he heard soft footfalls behind him. He lowered the peas to find his father settling down to the table next to him. To his credit, Alan said nothing about the lateness of the hour or the doctor's insistence that Don took some time to decompress. Some things just couldn't wait.

"Is that her?" asked Alan. Don nodded and was immediately sorry.

"Yeah. That's her," he replied, bringing the peas back up to his forehead. Alan took out his reading glasses and surveyed the photo.

"She's very beautiful." He peered over his bifocals at his reticent son, carefully watching for any reaction.

"She _was_, Dad," he corrected softly. "That picture is nearly a decade old now. She's been dead for just about eight years." Don opened his eyes and once more focused on the picture. Alan picked up the photo and viewed it more carefully. A young woman smiled brightly back at him, seemingly carefree and fresh from an adventure.

"Well, now that we've exchanged the compulsory pleasantries, may I ask a question?"

"Fire away."

"Who was she?" Don took a deep breath.

"Her name was Sadie Johnson, and she was a woman who was murdered in the Calabasas shootout. She was walking out of day care after dropping her two-year-old nephew off. A bullet caught her in the back of the skull. She was killed instantly, spinal cord severed." Don swallowed against the bile threatening the back of his throat.

"That's all well and good, but why are you sitting in this kitchen with frozen peas on your forehead staring at her picture? Was she a case of yours?"

"No. I was in Albuquerque at the time. I never knew a thing about her." Alan removed his reading glasses and folded them up. Putting his hands on the table, he continued prodding Don.

"Then, why?" Don looked over at his father.

"Her sister is the one who clubbed me in the face today at the hearing." Thinking about the events that had transpired earlier in the day, Don grimaced. Alan rose from the table and Don heard water running in the kitchen shortly thereafter. When Alan returned, Don accepted the glass of water gratefully. Sipping slowly, he continued.

"Her name is Angelique Duncan. She slipped into the crowd of protesters unnoticed. I had no idea, but the Feds and LAPD have been watching her for about five years. Turns out, she's been involved in roughly thirty incidents of vigilantism since her sister's death. She showed up today because the main topic of the hearing was the prevalence of civilian casualties. Though the bullet that killed her sister was indeed fired by one of the shootout perps, she'd managed to make herself believe that the FBI was at fault." Don took another sip of his water as Alan sighed.

"Why did she target you?" Don snorted and choked on his water a little.

"I was closest to the line of protesters. She didn't even know for sure that I was a Fed. Just lucky, I guess." Don finished the rest of his water.

"If the attack wasn't provoked, and the perpetrator is in custody, why the interest in her sister?" asked Alan.

"I just had to know why she was so angry." Don's gaze turned once more to the beauteous Sadie. "I think I know now." He removed the frozen produce from his forehead and yawned deeply.

"All right, mister. Bedtime for you." Alan stood and helped Don up from the table. As his son headed for the stairs, Alan glanced down at the picture of Sadie.

"I hope you know that if he could have saved you, he would," said Alan softly. "Please give him the benefit of the doubt, and don't trouble him in his dreams." He knew the proclivity of his son to take on guilt he hadn't incurred, and if talking to the photo of a dead woman could lessen the likelihood of that, he wasn't adverse to the idea.

He took the water glass and the peas and put them away. Alan started for the stairs but briefly reconsidered. As he passed the door to his eldest son's room, he listened intently. A decision made, he opened the door and walked to the bed.

"Dad?" queried Don, sitting up in bed.

"I figured you'd need these." He placed the peas gently on his son's forehead.

"Sleep well."


End file.
